


A Gotham Story

by DanDeLyon



Category: Joker (2019)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Female Reader, Gotham City - Freeform, Mental Health Issues, Workaholism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-16 00:07:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21261851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DanDeLyon/pseuds/DanDeLyon
Summary: You and the Joker meet time and time again.





	A Gotham Story

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that the reader here has mental health issues and is a workaholic.

It's late morning, and you're already dead on your feet.

You had hardly slept two and a half hours before it was time to wake up and drag yourself to work. Not only you managed to pull an all-nighter - you've actually gotten ahead of your colleagues. Your project is almost ready, and you would be proud of yourself... if not for the shadow of dread sitting right before you. Right where your project ends. What will be left there for you to do if you complete the task?

Your eyes close on their own account, ears still listening to the monotonous drone of the train. Your head tilts sideways, too heavy to stay in its normal position. A few seconds pass, and your whole body follows suit. You're leaning against something solid but nice to the touch, and the shortest period when your brain is unable to process the surroundings is pure bliss. Then it all registers. The coarseness of cloth. The unmistakable form of a shoulder. The warmth of a person. Their near-inaudible, but somehow-perceivable breathing.

You wake up with a start.

"I'm sorry," you say automatically, blinking at the dim lights of the underground.

"It's alright", someone responds quietly. "I don't mind."

You're unsure if you heard the last part correctly. Eyes stinging from the lack of sleep, you stare at the man sitting next to you. He's in his mid-thirties, with brown hair and fair skin. His face is thin to the point of haggardness. And stained with something white along the jawline.

"I, um... work long hours," you say.

"I see."

There's nothing else to discuss. The train is droning on.

And so is your life.

\-----

The boss said you could take a few days off. 

You tried to disagree.

"I don't need..."

"Yes, you do. You're doing dreat, Y/N. But I'm afraid this hectic pace might burn you out. And I need you refreshed and thinking."

"But..."

"Come back next week."

...

So here you are, sitting in a bus and going... somewhere.

Anywhere.

Nobody gives a shit about where you go.

And neither do you.

...

Work has become your pillar of light ever since that darkest day. It all happened five years ago, but all the bad memories are still there, very much within your reach. They're lurking underneath your unemotional outer facade, threatening to overcome it and seize your heart once again. To extinguish all hope, to drown you in sadness, to crush whatever has been left of you since that day.

You can't let them out. You're unable to turn back.

You have to move forward. And to move forward, you have to work.

Work.

And you've been denied work today.

You press your forehead to the cold glass of the dirty window. City streets rush by, and there isn't a single place where you'd be welcome.

You close your eyes, trying to savor the little physical sensations. The unyielding cold of the glass. The lumpy feel of the back of the seat. The hole in the cushion under your thighs. The viscous smell of people in the air. Their low murmur, shuffling footsteps, the rustle of their clothes and bags. These little physical sensations prove you're still here. You're still alive, still breathing, comprehending.

You're still able to fight.

An unexpected sound arises somewhere in front of you. It grows louder by the second, jarring, odd, and out of place.

Someone is laughing.

You open your eyes. People shrug, glance at each other; some lady is accusing the laughing person of molesting her child. You can't see who's making the weird sounds.

And you're tired of sitting in the bus.

You make your way to the doors, even though the bus is not stopping yet.

The merry man goes on laughing. He's covering his face with his hands. It looks like he's trying to shut his mouth.

Trying... and failing.

The sound is ominous, heavy. It strains its way out of the man's vocal cords, tearing through like a rabid animal.

The realization hits you hard.

He isn't laughing.

He's suffering.

Your body moves of its own accord. Idea of leaving the bus abandoned, you take the seat next to the man. And start stroking his back, from his shoulder blades downward.

It takes some time for him to calm down. And when he does, you get ready for harsh words. After all, it's not like he asked you to touch him.

He isn't laughing anymore. Yet he's still covering his face.

"It's okay," you hear yourself say. "You'll be fine. Probably."

Upon hearing that, the man finally puts his hands down. You're looking into the haggard face of the person from the other day. Now you can see that his eyes are green in color. His jaw is again stained with white.

He's silent. But you can tell that he recognized you.

"I'm sorry," you say, unsure whether you actually should be sorry or not.

"It's alright," he answers. His voice is raw. "I don't mind."

There's a strange feeling blooming someplace within your chest.

"My stop is next," he suddenly says. "I have to go."

"I see."

He gives you the oddest look. You stare into his green eyes. They were shining with an inner ache just a few seconds ago.

Now you could swear they hid a sparkle.

He walks away.

Eventually, so do you.


End file.
